


I'll be holding all the tickets (and you'll be owning all the fines)

by ohyellowbird



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, mean!timmy, set maybe a year or two in the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 01:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18561652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyellowbird/pseuds/ohyellowbird
Summary: There are times when Timmy is freshly home from shooting or a press tour, where he and Armie behave so much like the real thing that if you were to squint, you would swear that this was still cleanhanded love.





	1. Chapter 1

_POV - Armie_

There are times when Timmy is freshly home from shooting or a press tour, where he and Armie behave so much like the real thing that if you were to squint, you would swear that this was still cleanhanded love.

Timmy will let himself in with a spare key (gifted during those early, optimistic days) while Armie is asleep, will steal into his bed and read while he snores or work his way under a tan, heavy arm and fall into dreams alongside him.

He will come over with a list of movies to stream and movie theater popcorn and laze with Armie on the couch, situated like fallen dominoes, hardly half paying attention, content to be a _them_ again.

“I wish--” Armie will inevitably start, depth in his rumbling voice, but Timmy will cut him off with a terrified look, now preferring things left unsaid, as though it makes anything easier. He will shift up and breathe Armie full of love, will cup his jaw for earnest kisses, will pull Armie over himself like a blanket and remind him of why he won’t ever find the strength to let this all go. 

 

 

“You messed up again?” 

Armie’s voice doesn’t even draw tight anymore; it’s become level with resignation to these happenings that have grown more and more frequent. He stares at Timmy in the apartment hallway, smelling like sweat and gin and looking twice as guilty as he must feel.

It’s after two in the morning. Armie had been asleep.

Timmy nods, slow and sorry, one hand combing through the back of his tangled hair. “It didn’t mean anything,” he shrugs and Armie’s responding laugh is a bite. 

“Sure, yeah. It never does.”

More than hurt, it’s irritation that creeps in the longer Timmy stands there, an invasive hum like static on an old tv. Armie looms, unamused, blocking out the doorway with his frame.

It’s making Timmy uneasy, that Armie won’t fold and forgive as easy as he used to. When Timmy first started doing this, hissing out teary-voiced confessions to him on the phone after wild nights out, Armie was understanding. He knew how difficult navigating fame could be. 

There were bound to be slip-ups along the way--god knows he had his share with Elizabeth once The Social Network premiered. But this behavior was no longer the exception. It was fast becoming the rule.

“What was their name?”

They’re still separated by space and Timmy’s wrongdoings, the air between them acrid, fiberglass when Armie breathes.

“It didn’t mean anything,” his pretty broken record mutters again, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. Timmy’s nose scrunches up in unearned frustration. “Do we really need to… I mean--who cares? _Armie._ ”

“ _Fuck._ Timmy, I-I just. I can’t do this anymore,” Armie sighs, and Timmy winces at his tone, his expression warping into fear.

He makes an aborted gesture forwards, like he wants to cross the threshold but thinks better of it at Armie’s warning glare. Instead he stays put, vibrates in place with something Armie used to mistake for true regret. No, Timmy knows that when all is said and done he can have his cake and eat it too. This, is impatience. He wants everything fixed _now_. He wants to hop from bed to bed and for each to be occupied and welcome when he arrives.

And it’s his game they’re playing, Armie a swooning side character to his leading man.

He left Liz for Tim, broke apart his entire life so that they could have a real shot at being together, but in the end, Timmy was still just too young. And too in demand. His star was rising at a rate that neither of them was prepared for. Armie couldn’t hold onto Timmy and Timmy couldn’t keep hold of _anything_. He went from being a high school theater kid in New York to orbiting another planet in no time at all.

And this thing they had, that Armie had stupidly been piecing together in his mind since the day he barged in on Timmy practicing at that piano, it was an unfortunate casualty.

Armie scrubs a hand over his face, desperately trying to wait out his own obstinate yearning. He doesn’t look at Timmy waiting for him to fold, tenses his hands at his sides to keep from reaching out and reeling him in. But it’s useless. The salve of Timmy in his arms is, for now, still better than the burn of his indulgences when he’s away. 

His resolve crumbles. 

“Will you shower first at least?” 

With big, pleading eyes, Timmy shakes his head no, says, “Can we just go to bed? Armie, I want you,” and sounds like he means it.

Lovers for so long, they can speak without words. Timmy sees the resistance slowly drain out of Armie in the lowering of his shoulders, and shifts. He eats up the space between them in an opportunistic rush of movement, putting a hand out against Armie’s chest to guide him back through the airy LA apartment and into his room, where he can flatten Armie back against the bed and curve over to kiss him. 

“I hate you,” Armie breathes out just before their lips connect, but his traitor hands are magnets for Timmy’s waist. They bring him in.

The kiss begins as a continuation of their stitled argument, but too soon it is languid and wet, slack jaws and slick tongues and heavy breathing. 

Armie doesn’t forgive or forget, but when Timmy parts Armie’s knees to press his skinny hips between them, feet still on the floor, the wearing roar of his mind is lulled to a whisper.

Timmy rears back for a second to yank off his sweater, throws it down and climbs back onto Armie. “Fuck, I missed you at the party tonight,” he purrs, urging them both back along the mattress, stripping Armie then out of his shirt and ducking in to suck marks down his bared throat.

He’s half-drunk and pushy, and Armie is weak for it. His attention. The way his name sounds in his soft, pretty whine.

“ _Armiiieee._ ”

It’s dark in his room but the moon is full and when Timmy sinks teeth into his shoulder, Armie can see marks like the ones blooming now, all over Timmy’s neck from a mouth that wasn’t his.

“Did you wear a condom?” he asks, and Timmy’s lie is a smooth and breathy, “Yeah,” that Armie could choke on.

If he had a heart, Timmy would have kept his shirt on. When he has turned around to untie his boots, Armie notices long rows of fresh scratches laced across his spine. He reaches out to feel them, raised like mocking braille, and wants to retch. But then Timmy is twisting back and smiling wide with heavy-lidded lust, peeling Armie’s jeans open without ceremony to get a hand around his cock.

Armie’s moan is rough and unbidden. His abdominals clench. His spine buckles. 

Timmy crawls up and drapes himself over Armie with his arm between them, grinds down against Armie’s leg and mewls. “Love your big cock, See? ‘m hard for you too,” he huffs. His free hand tangles itself with one of Armie’s like only true lovers should, but Armie blasphemes and squeezes. 

He reaches out to grip the sharp jut of Timmy’s hip and forces their mouths into a fighting kiss though the winner was decided months ago. “You still miss this,” he snarls between clashings of teeth. “After whoring yourself out to the entire Screen Actors Guild, you still come here hungry.”

Timmy whimpers and Armie tastes blood.

They content themselves with high school handjobs and humping until Timmy starts getting antsy, sweating out the alcohol that lets him love without consequence.

The underside of his hair is damp. Armie gets a hand into it as Timmy sinks, pushes it away from his forehead to watch the way he bites chapped lips and yanks Armie’s jeans down more fully around his knees, focused and breathing hard. There’s something guilt-stricken in his eyes before they shutter, but it’s there and gone so fast that Armie must have imagined it.

Timmy seals his kiss-bruised lips around his cock and Armie’s attention skitters elsewhere. He wonders what Timmy’s better at, this or eating pussy. Wonders which he had last.

He’s beautiful, even huddled between Armie’s legs, sucking him off. Like something conjured by one of the greats. Manet or Renoir. An impressionistic dream.

Timmy’s hand closes around the root of Armie, where his mouth can’t reach and Armie squirms, grinds out, “ _Oh, jesus--fuck!_ ” He cuts his hips upward, mouth curling when Timmy gags.

A little while later Timmy pops off, just to say, “come on, I want you to,” before taking Armie in again. He bobs his head and hums and Armie is able to forget that this betrayal is choreographed, that there won’t be lazy morning afters. There will only be other people and late night visits and ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’s that can’t mean much. What’s real and right now is Timmy’s throat fluttering around him and Timmy’s lids lifting to hold eyes like hands, and it’s pathetic but even now Armie feels lucky for it. That he still wants this at all.

Another half a minute and Armie comes with a ragged punch of air, his hand around the back of Timmy’s neck, slippery with sweat. 

Timmy spits carelessly onto the hardwood and crawls up again, spilling against his side, but when Armie wedges a thigh up between his legs he rolls away, sated and ready for sleep.

”Nah, it’s cool. I don’t think I can again yet.“

 

 

Later, Armie watches Timmy dream, face soft and angelic, unweighted by the worry he's so determined to cure with all the wrong remedies. Armie watches him dream and keeps them touching when Timmy moves, a shoulder against his spine or a hand around his wrist or their toes brushing. 

Armie watches Timmy dream and wonders if this is the last time, if he’s had enough yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy reaches blindly for neglected blankets, one foot still in his dream until his fingers graze over a hairy, muscled thigh. 
> 
> Instantly he is wide awake, the previous night coming back to him in a slow drip of remembering.

_POV - Timmy_

It’s cold. 

Timmy reaches blindly for neglected blankets, one foot still in his dream until his fingers graze over a hairy, muscled thigh. 

Instantly he is wide awake, the previous night coming back to him in a slow drip of remembering. 

Fighting a shiver, he turns his head and it’s just as he’d feared. Armie is asleep next to him, snoring softly, impossibly gorgeous.

Timmy’s eyes burn as he puts together a night of jaded accusation and too much alcohol. He needs to stop pretending that he can keep coming over, that that things won’t end up like this when he drinks or cries or when Armie looks _so good._ They need to sit down and have a serious, crushing conversation. But as of yet, Timmy has been unable to face what lies at the end of it; losing Armie still feels unbearable. 

Cowardly, he skirts it by stumbling in and making cruel demands that won’t be denied, and by leaving before Armie’s sober wrath awakens.

Armie makes a sound meant for his dream and shifts, knee bending to kiss the outside of Timmy's leg and Timmy remembers pinning Armie down the night before with his weight in a straddle, remembers pressing teeth into the skin below his jaw.

Fuck.

A bolt of anger rips through him. Where is rock bottom for Armie? Why doesn’t he shut Timmy out when it’s late and he hears a knock at his door? When is Timmy going to turn up and be told off? Because until that happens, he can’t stop himself from taking and taking. 

Armie is a toy that he’s broken and continues to play with.

During the comedown of every empty indiscretion, one question sears in Timmy’s mind: will he and Armie still fit together like puzzle pieces after what he’s done this time? And the answer, no matter his transgression, has continued to be: _yes_.

When he looks again, Armie is awake and staring back, half of his face hidden by the pillow. 

Timmy gasps, wishing he’d left sooner. But caught now, he stays, glad for the small mercy of having worn his underwear to bed. Armie, he realizes quickly, is naked, which makes extricating himself without further incident more difficult.

“Morning,” he says and his voice sounds stuck, He coughs, turned away, and Armie doesn’t take advantage by moving closer. He knows the drill. The blank look on his face is disconnected, a practiced lie.

And Timmy hates himself for it, but he’s glad Armie isn’t immune, that his hurt and stoicism can still be easily overwhelmed. 

“I should probably…” he starts, and Armie cuts him off. 

“Yeah,” he deadpans, which stings, makes Timmy want to stay and soothe Armie back into lovesickness.

The furnace kicks on then, loud around them, and Timmy prickles. He doesn’t like the hardness in Armie’s eyes, the confrontation of his stare. By now, he’s usually gone, distracting himself away from guilt instead of missing these morning afters. 

Timmy's hands disappear under the blankets and resurface moments later to lob his underwear across the room.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, soft, and rolls up over Armie before he can thrust an arm out to stop him. Timmy drops down onto his elbows and glides their cheeks together to whisper right against Armie’s ear, “Fuck me before I go?”

There’s a yawning gap of hesitation.

When did he become this cruel?

Armie’s eyes are wide and clear when Timmy pulls back enough to see. He stares at Timmy like he’s an open bear trap, feeds him a wounded _how could you_ look, but as they both knew he would, he steps right in. 

Big hands fit around Timmy's hips before one disappears to open him up. Timmy tilts down for Armie’s mouth, but Armie turns his face, focuses only on shifting Timmy's weight up and finding the right angle to press his cock in once he’s adequately prepped him.

Timmy won’t sit back and ride him. He wants the cold connection of their chests, wants Armie’s kiss but settles for mouthing at the rasp of his jaw and breathing messily against his temple.

It’s mostly quiet sex, Armie rocking up into him without any real ambition and Timmy grinding down, smiling secret whenever Armie’s fingers clench up in his hair or around his nape.

Their mouths are both heavy with different versions of the same sentiment but those three words aren’t welcome here, with them, anymore. And that’s on Timmy.

It’s what he’s thinking when Armie comes without sound a minute or two later, his body jerking up towards the ceiling. Timmy doesn’t let himself finish. He doesn’t deserve to. 

He pants out a caught cry and bounds up onto his feet immediately after, ensnared by the severity of what he’s done--no, doing. Faced with the reality of his actions, he is desperate for a moment alone to re-pack it away, calls dibs on the shower before the tears pricking at him can gather and fall.

When he’s out, clean and in clothes but no closer to self-absolution, Armie isn’t home. 

There is a note scribbled in his handwriting on the dresser asking him to lock up when he leaves. 

Timmy traces over the hastily carved A and takes it with him when he does.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this when i was in a Mood so i'm sorry for how mean it is.
> 
> i love you all. @me on tumblr: ohhyellowbird.


End file.
